“I was going to pull the canoe up nearer,” replied the latter.
“I don’t care to go any nearer.”
“Why, you can’t reach him from here,” said Egan.
“And if you hook him he will break the rod into a thousand pieces,” chimed in Don. “I know I made a mistake when I bought that flimsy little thing.”
Farwell smiled but said nothing. Grasping the rod in his right hand above the reel he drew off as much line as he thought he needed, and then threw the flexible tip smartly upward and backward, causing the flies to describe a circle around his head. One would have thought from his actions that he was going to strike the water with the rod, but he didn’t. When the rod reached a horizontal position it stopped there, but the flies had received an impetus that carried them onward almost to the edge of the weeds, and landed them on the water as lightly as a feather and right in the center of the swirl. It was neatly and gracefully done; but before Don and his companions could express their delight and admiration, the scarlet ibis suddenly disappeared, the line was drawn as tight as a bow-string and the pliant rod was bent almost half double. Farwell had hooked his fish, and now the fun began.
The trout fought hard but he did not break the rod as Don had predicted, and neither did the boy with whom he was battling show half as much excitement as did the others who sat by and watched the contest. They had never dreamed that there was so much sport in fishing, and there wasn’t in the way they generally fished, with a heavy pole and a line strong enough to jerk their prize from the water the moment he was hooked. Don, as we have said, had caught a few trout in the brooks about Dalton, but he had not done it in any such scientific way as this. Being distrustful of his rod he had seized the line and lifted the fish out by main strength—a most unsportsmanlike thing to do. He closely observed all Farwell’s movements, and when at last the exhausted trout was dipped out of the water with the landing-net and deposited in the bottom of the canoe, he thought he had made himself master of the art of fly-fishing. But when he came to try casting he found he was mistaken. His flies went almost everywhere except in the direction he desired to throw them, and annoyed him by catching in his coat-tail when he tried to throw them over his head; but after patient and careful practice in making short casts he finally “got the hang of the thing,” as he expressed it, and after that he did better. The string of fish he took back to the lodge with him at noon was not a very large one, but the few he caught afforded him an abundance of sport, and that was just what he wanted.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONCLUSION.
Having gained a little insight into the art of casting the fly, Don and his friends became eager and enthusiastic fishermen. They were on the pond almost all the time, and as they tried hard to follow the instructions that were willingly and patiently given them, and would not allow themselves to become discouraged by their numerous blunders and failures, they finally became quite expert with their light tackle. They wound up the season with a glorious catch, and then oiled their rods and put them into their cases with many sighs of regret.